Darkness Take Me
by Silfrvarg
Summary: Alone in the dark, will Sheppard ever see another sunset? Shep-Whump. Rated T for swearing. HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

_If you cam looking for whump, then your not going to leave unsatisfied. Poor Sheppard never escapes my stories with his skin intact. Hope you enjoy. Reviews are encouraged, as they really help me get the motivation to upload the next chapter._

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John's heart was racing as he ran through shadows that could be trees or rocks or people. It was darker than a lawyer's heart and he couldn't see a thing, he was running on pure instinct, swerving to avoid whatever obstacles he could detect, and colliding painfully with unseen objects whenever he couldn't. His lungs were burning, his legs felt like they were filled with molten lead, and a myriad of scratches and bruises from collisions with unknown items of various natures; sharp, pointy hard rough or otherwise pain inflicting.

He was well and truly lost, he had no idea how long he had been running or which direction the gate was, all he knew was that his best chance of escape was to keep moving and hope they were as blind as he was, which, considering he had eluded them so far, was not an unreasonable hope. While he was busy pondering the chances that he would get out of this situation, he collided with another shadow and 2was thrown off balance, tumbling down an unseen slope littered with rocks and gravel.

_Oh god, what if it's a freaking cliff!_ The panicked thought came unbidden and threatened to stop his heart then and there. With a huge sigh of relief, he felt himself skid to a halt, never so glad to encounter a thorn bush in his life. It was to god damned dangerous to be running around in an unknown wilderness when you couldn't see a foot in front of you.

With a sigh of resignation, he determined to wait until dawn, if they had such a thing as dawn here, even if it meant spending the night getting familiar with some thorns. He had no doubt that the thorns were friendlier than his pursuers. He had been chased so many times that it was almost common place now, by enemy troops back on earth, Wraith, Genii and any other group that fancied a not-so-pleasant chat with lieutenant colonel Sheppard in the Pegasus galaxy. He didn't know what this particular group of bastards wanted, weapons, supplies, (he shuddered to think) food, or just plain old information, but they were willing to go through all the trouble to ambush him so they could get it.

Rolling over into an uneasy dose, he decided to wait it out until he could find a way off this rock, or until they found him. He fervently hoped it wasn't the latter.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all for your reviews, they really do help. A little more plot development in this chapter, but don't worry, full on whumpage promised in the next few chapters. Enjoy!_

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John awoke with a start at the sound of voices approaching. It was still as dark as it had been before he drifted off, and he was beginning to wonder just how long night was on this planet. The sounds of the hunters got closer, he could here there footsteps now, and heard snatches of conversation. _"Anyone seen the offworlder?" "Why do they want him so bad?" "Why are we searching for some nut in this heat?"_

With the mention of heat it occurred to John that it was an unusually warm night. He began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, something weird was going on. Instinctively he crouched down lower in his thornbush, although the reasonable part of his brain wondered why he needed cover on a night as black as this. The only way for them to see him would be if they had thermal imaging, and, if they did, he was screwed regardless of cover.

"_Captain, why can't we head back? It's nearly midday. If this guy has any sense, he's long gone by now."_ The complaint evident in the enemy's voice reminded Sheppard of McKay, and if silence hadn't been necessary, he might have snorted in laughter. The uneasy feeling had risen until he was nearly choking on it however, his subconscious shrieking at him that something was terribly wrong, but his consciousness hadn't quite comprehended it yet.

With a sick feeling, he played back the last snatch of conversation in his mind; _"It's nearly midday..."_ This statement, coupled with the fact that it was unusually warm for night time and that the hunters didn't seem to need torches sent a shock through Sheppard, making him gasp involuntarily.

The realisation hit him with the force of a charging bull elephant. He was blinded. It was the middle of the day and he couldn't see a god damned thing. His heart fluttered, panic coursed through his entire body, rendering him unable to move, unable to breathe, until he felt he would die from fear alone. How had this happened?

He remembered coming through the gate at night, remembered weapons fire coming from all direction, the almost tinny rattle of the P-90s fighting with the dull booming from the enemy's weapons. He had gotten into a close quarters scuffle with one of them who seemed to be out of ammo, only to have something thrown in his eyes. It had stung like crazy, but he could still see then. He had shouted to the rest of the team to retreat, the tone of his voice brooking no argument. The gate had shut down before he could get to it, and he had bolted into the forest, firing rounds from his sidearm whenever he could get a clear shot off. It was only until he was far enough into the forest for it to seem normal that total darkness had descended.

He was god damned blind, in enemy territory, completely out of ammunition, and being hunted by an enemy who no doubt had plenty of ammunition _and_ the ability to see. There was absolutely no chance that he would be able to evade what he couldn't even see, he had never been so utterly helpless. In fact, the only option open to his was to remain in the thorn bush and hope his team came and found him before the enemy did. He refused to even think about what would happen afterwards, the thought that the blindness may be permanent was just too horrible to contemplate.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry it's late. I haven't written anything for a few weeks now because my trial HSC exams start in three days and I have been busy studying, but no more! Thanks to all who have reviewed, I think I might even be able to finish this story sometime in the next month, which considering I have never actually written a complete multi-chapter story yet is quite an accomplishment._

_Hope you enjoy it, bring on the whump!_

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John Sheppard was really beginning to hate his thornbush. Every time he so much as inhaled to deeply he managed to find new thorns in uncomfortable places. The only good thing about this was that it encouraged him to stay as still as possible, as if the prospect of being alone, blind and ammunition wasn't encouragement enough. He had put his current condition out of his mind, well, as much as he could, and was instead straining his ears to hear the sounds of his enemy moving through the undergrowth.

Somewhere close by he heard the _crunch...crunch...crunch_ of booted feet on fallen leaves, and was startled at the clumsiness of the enemy soldiers, weren't they even _trying_ to move silently, by now even McKay moved with more stealth. The unbidden thought made him realise again just how alone he was, there was no McKay to complain about the heat, or the distance they had trekked, or the time he was wasting on some backwater planet when he could be saving the galaxy from the comfort of his lab. There was no Teyla to survey the situation with a calm eye, to impart some gem of knowledge obtained through her trading partners, or just to calm everyone with the serenity of her presence. There was no Ronon to stand menacingly and make the bravest enemies falter, or to fire of a few bursts of that energy weapon of his, or pull a knife from somewhere on his person.

No, he was totally alone, and those enemies seemed to be getting closer every minute, the crunch of their feet was quite loud by now. He could hear one of the noise makers muttering, they were clearly annoyed at being sent to capture him. The boots were even louder now, he could hear them breathing, hear the rustle of cloth as they walked. Surely they were right on top of him by now, but it kept on getting louder until the quiet sounds were almost deafening to him after so much silence.

"Hey, what's that on the ground?" asked a whining soldier; Sheppard could hear him picking something up close by. "Looks like one of the offworlder's weapons. Go carefully, he could be close by." He bit back a hiss of annoyance; he had obviously dropped his sidearm when he was sliding down the embankment. He heard them walking towards him, louder and louder, until he could smell them, the scent of unwashed bodies in the heat, his upper lip curled in disgust at the scent. He heard a heavy footfall startlingly close. Judging by the dirt that had just sprayed into his face, a soldier had just kicked at his thornbush. He felt the heavy dirt clogging his nose, and his eyes began to water with the effort of holding in a sneeze. He relaxed slightly when it appeared to depart, until, suddenly, another one escaped his nose. All at once it seemed his thornbush was ripped apart, he felt rough had grab at him and nearly vomited with the feeling of being manhandled by unseen figures.

"Hah! What do we have here?" Cried one of the men triumphantly, he felt a hand grab his chin and wrench his face up, "Looks like he's been blinded by teslec powder. You! Offworlder, can you see?"

Sheppard merely shot his best 'Kiss my ass' grin in what he hoped was the speaker's direction. "No, and I'm kind of grateful I can't because from the sound of you lot I doubt you're much to look at. Your mothers probably dallied with this planet's equivalent of a pig." As soon as he said it he regretted it, as an unseen fist slammed into his stomach, causing him to double over in pain. But he went ahead and opened him mouth anyway, he just couldn't help himself, whenever he got into a bad situation his first response was to piss the enemy off as much as possible. "You hit like a girl to! I don't even _want_ to know what kind of hideous creature you spawned from." This time a foot slammed into his ribs and he couldn't hold back a gasp of pain. The first voice spoke again, "Lay off for now. The boss will want him in reasonable condition, and if you go breaking his ribs now he won't be happy." Sheppard had hoped the relief these words caused wasn't showing on his face, but the soldier in charge seemed to step towards him and his voice sounded alarmingly close to his ear. "Don't worry, you'll get more than your share of pain when the boss is through with you. You'll wish you'd never been born." Sheppard shot what he hoped was a defiant smile in the direction of the voice, "When I'm though with you you'll wish you'd never crawled out from whatever rock you live under." He felt the men around him tense up, ready to strike, but they were forestalled by a curt word from the soldier in charge.

Sheppard felt himself lifted bodily and swung over the shoulder of one of the larger men in a fireman's hold. Despite the pain, he felt his mind being pulled towards an uneasy doze, he was just too tired to resist.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry this is late, I've been busy lately with horrible exams, but now I have three weeks off! Plenty of stories, I may even finish this one within the month._

_Plenty of whump in this chapter! Enjoy!_

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He knew he was awake when he felt the grimy stone underneath him and the rough ropes that bound his hands. Following this sensation, his other senses returned with a vengeance. He could hear the constant _drip, drip, drip_ of water, muffled yells and what sounded like screams, and a rustling that he _really_ hoped wasn't some kind of alien rat. He could smell human waste, sweat and blood, rusting iron and mould. He could taste the staleness of the air.

_Yep_ he thought _definitely a dungeon._ The fact that he knew what a dungeon smelt and sounded like was disturbing in itself.

He blinked a few times, one could always hope, but he was still blinded. _Damn._

His musings were cut short by approaching footfalls. He struggled against his bonds into what felt like a sitting position, and faced what he hoped was the door.

He heard a rusty squeal as the door to his cell opened. Smiling the old _bite-me_ smile he once again attempted to stir up his captors. It was reckless, it was stupid and it probably didn't do anything useful, but it was fun, like skateboarding or skydiving or swimming with sharks, just another extreme sport.

"You guys really need a bath or something, the smells making my eyes water from here!"

"You certainly are as insulting as my men told me you were, but I assure you, you will not be joking much longer. When I am done with you, you will..."

"Wish I'd never been born. Yeah, I've heard this before somewhere..." He felt a sharp blow to his cheek as someone backhanded him.

"Ouch, that kinda' hurt!"

He felt a rough hand seize his hair and his head was tilted back.

"You will tell me who you are, who your people are, and where you come from. You will then tell me how many men you have guarding your gate, and then you will tell me a great many other things that I don't truly need to know but which I will extract from you in extremely painful ways nonetheless. And then, when you have entertained me for long enough, you will be executed. You are going to _die_ here Offworlder! Do you hear me?"

"Yeah I do. You might want to think about using your _inside_ voice." The brief yell of frustration he heard was almost worth the kick to the face, but the beating that followed was more than he had bargained for. Pain overwhelmed him as he felt himself dragged from his cell and down the cold stone corridor.

He became aware that he was strapped to a chair, tightly. No matter how hard he struggled at the leather straps on his wrists they would not budge, all he succeeded in doing was tearing the skin off his wrists, and he felt warm blood trickling down his arms. His ankles were similarly bound, and, by the feel of it, so was his chest, which was extremely uncomfortable on what felt like broken ribs. _Great_ he thought, _My good old buddy interrogation. What trip to the dungeons is complete without it?_

He heard someone sit down in a chair in front of him, and snapped his head to glare at them, or, at least where he thought they were. "Ah good. You are awake. Now we can begin. Over the years we have refined several effective and... imaginative methods of extracting information. Unfortunately most of these rely keenly on the subject being able to _see_ what he is about to endure. This will not work on you I am afraid."

"Happy to disappoint." He quipped.

The speaker continued without heeding the interruption. "Nonetheless, I am sure that we can find ways to persuade you to tell us what we need to know. We'll start simple. What is your name?"

For some reason people always wanted to know that, but Sheppard could never figure out why. Did it really matter that much. Still, he didn't want to get into the habit of answering his captors questions truthfully, and he just couldn't pass up another opportunity to play "piss of the captors".

"I.P Freely."

"I will ask again. Your name?" This was accompanied by a punch to the face.

"Amanda Hugandkiss."

"Your name?"

"Al Caholic. Oliver Closeoff. Jacques Strap. Seymore Butts. Homer Sexual. Mike Rotch. Hugh Jass. Heywood U. Kuddleme."

Each of the hilarious fake names earned him another punch. By the time he ran out of things to say his head was spinning and he felt like he was going to vomit from the pain in his abdomen. He settled for coughing, and was unnerved to feel blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. He hoped it was just from the blows to the head.

Despite the pain he chuckled. "Look, if you think that a few punches are going to make me tell you _anything_ then you're as stupid as you sound. I've been fed on by _wraith_. Nothing you can do to me will hurt that much. Nothing."

To his dismay the man just paused, his next statement thoughtful, filled with a strange confidence that made Sheppard's blood run cold. "We'll see."

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_Next chapter coming soon. What do our smelly villains have up their sleeves that could match a wraith?_


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry this is so late, I have been away from the internet for about a week and haven't had a chance to upload this chapter. I have had many reviews wondering what could possibly beat being fed on by the wraith and I certainly hope that no one will be disappointed with what I have come up with. Thanks to all who have reviewed this story. Enjoy._

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"The only good thing about being fed on by a wraith is that its _quick_." The man's voice seemed cheerful, eager even. He reminded Sheppard of an old science teacher he remembered from school who had always delighted in showing his students the best way to make a mess of the labs. This man clearly enjoyed his work, and Sheppard felt a sudden surge of hatred boiling through his veins, he didn't even try to stop it from showing on his face.

"Of course it is intensely painful and to the one being fed on it probably feels like an eternity of agony, but it can only last for so long before they are drained completely and allowed to die." He gave a cold chuckle, sounding for all the world like some one-sided comic book villain, "However I assure you that if you do not answer my questions you will continue to suffer until your heart gives out. The longest anyone has lasted was three weeks, I wonder if you can do any better."

Despite the dread that seemed to freeze his heart Sheppard kept his face bland, "Well I can't resist a challenge like that can I?" he asked, goading his tormentor. He was surprised when no blow landed to punish him for his insolence. The man simply sighed.

"If you have nothing of importance to say then we shall begin." He felt a prick in the crook of his elbow as something was injected into his vein. When all he felt was a mild sting where he had been pricked he gave a snort of laughter.

"Is this the worst you can do?" he asked, his voice filled with disdain.

"Give it time." Said the man. Sheppard heard him stand up and leave the room, and the doors closed with an ominous clang.

...

An hour later Sheppard was in hell. His ribs shrieked in agony as if they were being broken all over again. He couldn't lift his head as he was in the middle of a full blown migraine, every movement feeling like his head was exploding in excruciating slow motion as claws ripped into his mind and tore him apart. His heart pumped blood that burned and froze at the same time, spreading the pain through his body like a disease. . All he could hear was a ragged sound that he knew was his own shuddering breath, all he could smell was the metallic tang of his own blood and all he could feel was pain.

Pure.

Unyielding.

Merciless.

All consuming.

Pain.

Pain so awful it rage through body mind and soul. Every instant seemingly an eternity as his mind shrank away and thought was erased. He took another breath and it began all over again as the small part of him that hadn't been silenced begged for unfeeling death.

...

He slowly became aware that the pain was gone. He breathed and his lungs didn't cry out. He lifted his head and the claws didn't shred his mind. He moved and his heart pumped blood, not fire and ice. The lack of agony was dizzying, and his mind reeled in confusion, for a moment he was almost afraid, without the pain what was there? He mentally slapped himself, shuddering away from the implications of that thought, and became aware that he was not alone, the man was in front of him, he could hear his breaths, he could _smell_ his scent, a mixture of other people's blood, stale sweat and subtle chemical smells that seemed to burn his nostrils. He could almost feel him, a foul presence that jarred his entire body with its overpowering feeling of _wrongness_.

"The pain has gone, has it not?" The man enquired, his voice grating on Sheppard's ears.

"Yeah, mostly, but I bet I would feel even better if I could kill you just a little." The hatred he felt for this man was stronger than ever, and he couldn't help but pull at his bonds as he strained towards him, his face a mask of fury.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. I just wanted to show you what will happen when you tell us what you know. I can make the pain go away; all you have to do is answer my questions. Think about this while you suffer. Before Sheppard could answer he felt another prick in his elbow and the pain returned full force, quicker than it had come the first time. All sense of time and place warped and twisted until his world was again ruled by pain. It obliterated his senses, his mind, his feelings, his humanity.

Without any sense of who and what he was the pain drove him, he heard a mindless roar of agony and could not comprehend that it was his own. No sense of self as he floated through a river of molten lead. No thought, no emotion, just pain.

...

He was Sheppard again and the man was back with his chemical odour, asking the same question over and over again.

"What is your name?"

Sheppard opened his mouth but no sound came out. Someone held a cup to his lips and he swallowed, feeling brackish water trickle down his throat. He drank as much as he could before he started to choke, his head swimming as he fought for air. At last the dizziness seemed to go away and he heard the question again.

"What is your name?" Without the strength to be angry or afraid, yet knowing he could never answer, he chuckled, hearing how hollow and empty it sounded but at the moment not really caring.

"Go screw yourself."

When the pain returned he lost himself in it, a small part of him wondering if there would be anything left after it had run its course.

...

Time passed unmeasured, Sheppard tried to count how many times they had stopped the pain to question him or give him water, but he had lost count. He knew that since the sixth time he had not been able to talk at all, that for the last few times he had been barely able to drink the water. Each time it was harder to remember where he was and what was happening, sometimes even who he was. Unable to talk he was no longer afraid that he would give anything away, and so every moment he was aware he repeated his name in his mind.

_Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard._

Long after the words had ceased to have meaning he still thought _Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard Sheppard_.

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_Oh dear, it seems Sheppard's in a bit of trouble. Can his team rescue him before theres nothing left to rescue?_


	6. Chapter 6

_Ok, this chapter is late, and very short, but you can blame real life for ganging up on me. I had to do my final exams, work out my uni applications, I am still trying to get a job. Real life sucks. Anyways, to anyone who has ever read, reviewed or favorited my stories, I can honestly say that constructive comments have renewed my faith in the interview, seriously, anyone who wants to make an author squee, please press the review button, you know you want to..._

_Anyways, silliness aside, on to the story. Now where did I leave my Sheppard... Oh, that's right!_

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The prisoner on the chair had stopped talking two weeks ago, his breath rasping as he fought for air when he had the presence of mind to do so. For the last four days the guards had had to poor drops of water into his mouth as he lost the strength or will to lift his head to accept the vital liquid. The Chemical Man sighed, taking stock of his prisoner's physical condition. They hadn't been able to feed him for a week, he was close to starvation, the miscue amounts of water they could coax him into swallowing were helping little to stave off dehydration, and to top it off, his wounds had all become badly infected, resulting in a human wreck that was a day off death, if that.

Almost regretfully he murmured "You should have answered my questions Offworlder." The Chemical Man had given the stranger every chance, if he would just tell them his name they would stop the injections and beat him to death, if he told them the address of his world they would take him into the yard and shoot him, but the Offworlder had chosen torment.

"Get him up! He couldn't answer my questions if he wanted to, and I don't see the point of wasting my supplies on a man who is too far gone to care." Two of the guards dragged the prisoner down the corridor into the yard, dumping him against the wall. The impact seemed to rouse the prisoner, he looked around with sightless eyes, clearly confused. The Chemical Man saw a last opportunity to speak with his prisoner before the guards put a bullet through him.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me your name so I can write it on your tombstone?" The man gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Ah well, an unmarked grave will have to suffice. I have to admit, I'm a tiny bit impressed, you have lasted longer than everyone else, but alas, I fear to further test you would serve no purpose. Good bye Stranger." He turned to his men and gave the order to fire.

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_It's really short, but I will upload another chapter soon, this was just what I had scribbled down from the last time I wrote anything. So, anyone up for a rescue?_


	7. Chapter 7

_Ok, a few people have questioned why it has taken so long for our man Sheppard to be rescued, and I assure you, there is an explanation coming. Of course the real reason is that until yesterday I had forgotten about this story and it is taking me a little while to get back into the saddle, but there's a better explanation in the story if you'll read on._

_A word of warning. This chapter gets kind of dark and despairish (I like making new words) but you can blame my insomnia for that, and the fact that since this is not a deathfic I have to cram in the emotion without killing someone important (which I admit is difficult)_

_Anyway, enough of my prattling, on to the story!_

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Memories danced and slid away like small darting fish in a pond, no matter how hard he tried to catch them some kept slipping away from him. He knew he was Sheppard, although sometimes that didn't really mean much to him. He was almost always certain he was a military man. At moments of lucidity he could remember faces and names, three people, a team, a multitude of others he felt compelled to protect, even in his current state.

He knew he was a captive. And he knew that no matter what he could never tell these people what they wanted to know, even if it was something as insignificant as his own name. All other knowledge was secondary to this. It did not matter if he forgot who he was, if all memory of his team, his friends, his _family_ was stripped from his mind, as long as he never answered The Chemical Man's questions.

His sluggish mind comprehended the fact that the pain had subsided, not completely, but then it hadn't gone away completely for some time now.

He heard the sound of a door opening, trying to decide whether it was worth attempting to lift his head to accept the water that was the only thing keeping him alive, and the only reason The Chemical Man continued to stop the torture. It was probably not worth the effort, he doubted if he could lift his head even an inch, and the guards would no doubt be forced to dribble the life giving liquid down his throat like the last however many times it had been.

But instead of a hand dragging his head up by his hair he suddenly felt his body falling from the chair that had confined him for so long. Pain flowed through his limbs as blood flow was returned, but it was dull, somewhat muted pain rather than the white hot agony that usually followed the return of circulation. For some reason he thought that should worry him, but before he had a chance to fully contemplate this thought it swam away, another silvery fish disappearing into the murky waters of his mind.

He was barely aware of hands grabbing him by the shoulders, his legs trailing along the floor as he was dragged from the interrogation room. He wondered why they were bothering to take him back to his cell, lately he had just been left in the chair for what must be days on end, so why bother letting him rest now?

It took him a while to realise that the journey was taking longer than usual, he should have been in his cell by now. He heard the squeal of an iron door nearby, felt a sudden shiver as a gust of cold air chilled him, and felt a dull flash of pain as he was unceremoniously dumped against a wall.

His nose, long used to the smells of a dungeon, caught the scent of fresh air, of grass, of dirt, all overlaid with a smell he had to admit was probably coming from him, a smell of dried blood, sweat, and less pleasant things. His fingers, long used to feeling nothing at all, scrabbled against something that felt a little bit grainy, not that he could really tell anymore, he felt like he was wearing a thick layer of cloth all over his body, all sensation was muffled.

He was outside. _Why the hell would they take me outside, somehow I don't think it's for fresh air._ Still musing over this new development it took him a while to notice the horridly familiar voice of The Chemical Man.

"... what your name is so I can write it on your tombstone?" The man sounded almost regretful, like an orca apologising for eating a whale calf, or a lion sighing over a dead zebra. The voice sent chills down Sheppard's spine, he managed to shake his head ever so slightly. He knew now why they had brought him out here, why he was against a wall. They were going to shoot him. Somehow the knowledge didn't particularly bother him. He didn't want to die, there were so many things he still wanted to do, people he wanted to see (not literally unfortunately), but there was nothing he could do.

Muscles wasted from weeks of confinement, mind sluggish after agony so intense that all thought was obliterated, energy gone from malnutrition, and the constant thrum of pain just below the surface prevented him from so much as moving. There wasn't much point, he was blind, weak, and no matter what he tried to tell himself he felt a coldness deep inside, fingers of ice reaching into his heart. Each breath was a struggle, with each beat his heart seemed to evaluate whether it should bother to beat again. His own body was betraying him, giving up on him. He didn't have long, he knew that now.

He didn't know how long it had been since he was captured, he had been so sure his people would come and find him at first, but hours alone, blind and in agony had erased what hope he had. Despair, unacknowledged when agony rules, had drowned his soul in the hours of respite he was granted.

"Ah well, an unmarked grave will have to suffice. I have to admit, I'm a tiny bit impressed, you have lasted longer than everyone else, but alas, I fear to further test you would serve no purpose. Good bye Stranger."

At The Chemical Man's words his heart gave a brief stutter, a half hearted fight or flight response, as he heard him give the order for his men to ready their guns. He heard a shot, someone had fired before commanded to, he didn't feel an impact, not even the dull thud that was often the only sign that you had been hit, but he assumed it was because he was too far gone to notice. As he sat there waiting to die he hear voices, breathtakingly beautiful in there familiarity.

"Throw down your weapons!" A sharp barking voice that was Lorne when he was angry.

A menacing growl that could only be Ronon as he heard the sound of weapons being dropped.

A soft yet strong voice by his side, "John, are you alright? Can you move?"

An urgent voice that seemed to flow without pause, "Well of course he's not all right! He's been here for damn near a month, just look at him all skin and bones, they probably didn't feed him well and he's covered in bruises... he looks like crap! Is he still alive? Why isn't he talking to us? What did they do to him?"

The familiar voices called to the one part of his mind not overrun by pain, the faces of his team, they had come for him. He had doubted and yet they had come. Desperate to give some sign that he was still alive, for the moment, he fought to use voice rusted and quiet from disuse. It came out as barely a whisper, which only Teyla who was right beside him heard.

"Came." His mind began to drift, he knew they would do all they could to save him. There was nothing left for him to do, so he let the darkness that had been circling the edges of his subconscious draw him down, so deep down, away from pain and fear, away from light and hope, away from though or memory.

McKay saw Sheppard go even limper than he had been before. "Oh god, is he... did he just... die?" his voice was small, barely a squeak as his concern for the man who he had somehow begun to treasure like a brother showed on his face.

Teyla bent down and placed a gentle hand on Sheppard's throat, trying to hide the sudden fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

"He is alive!" She declared with relief, though her voice was tainted with worry, "For now."

Medical teams rushed towards the fallen colonel. Lorne, relief evident in his face and voice took in the sight, the bound guards, the well dressed man who seemed to be in charge who was white with fear as Ronon glared at him with eyes hotter than any star, his CO, pale and thin after spending so much time in captivity, Sheppard's team, worry and relief warring for control of their faces.

"Alright, let's bring him home!"

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_Wow, reviews are gold, I got 1500 words for this one just because you all reviewed so nicely, so if you want more chapters, don't hesitate to push the button. This is the first fic I have written that is not a oneshot or a deathfic, so all feedback is appreciated._


	8. Chapter 8

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Enter the infirmary scenes!

_Note, this story takes place early season three, so Carson and Elizabeth are still with us. _

_And excuse the medical mumbo jumbo, I am not a doctor yet and all I really have to go on is HSC biology._

* * *

Carson sat slumped in the chair next to Sheppard, relief filling him at the slow, steady beeps coming from the heart rate monitor, the only obvious evidence that the man was still alive. He was desperately thin, the closest to starvation that Carson had ever seen in a patient. He was also severely dehydrated and had three broken ribs that were not healing properly, no doubt due to malnutrition. His eyes were completely obscured by milky white cataracts. Along with the more immediate problems, his body was covered with bruises, both old and new, the skin on his wrists all but rubbed of completely from fighting restraints, his arms covered in needle marks.

But the physical injuries were only part of what had Carson worried. It had been three days since Sheppard had been rescued, three days since he had been brought into the infirmary barely alive. His heart had stopped beating twice before he was taken into surgery to repair the right lung which had been damaged by a splinter of bone from one of the broken ribs. After that there had been further surgery to remove the cataracts and replace them with artificial lenses. Carson thanked fortune that the IOA had approved sending such supplies for the opening of a clinic on the mainland; otherwise it would have taken him weeks to get his hands on them. For three days Carson had fought to keep his patient alive, and for three days Sheppard had been unresponsive. Carson realised that after what he had suffered it was to be expected, but he was so used to seeing the Colonel bounce back from whatever this mad galaxy threw at him that to see him lying so still was frightening. He just wished his patient would wake up.

The sound of one of his nurses being berated brought him back into the present as McKay walked into his infirmary, his expression stubborn.

"Rodney, I thought I told you to go and get some rest, you're body needs sleep."

"And I suppose yours doesn't? Look at you; you've probably had a lot less sleep than I have if the bags under your eyes are anything to go by, why don't _you_ go and get some rest, and I'll watch Sheppard sleep for a while.

Carson took a deep breath, preparing to launch into a tirade about certain scientests invading his infirmary and ignoring his advice when he saw two other figures enter and knew he really had no hope in arguing with all three of them. Besides, Sheppards condition, while critical, was stable, and with Rodney, Teyla and Ronon watching over him it was unlikely that any change would go unnoticed.

"Fine, I'll get some rest, but you are to let me know the second something changes, I'll be in my office."

"I thought you were going to get some rest!"

"I am getting some rest."

"Sleeping in your office does not count as rest!"

"Sleep is sleep Rodney, as you've told me a number of times when you've fallen asleep on your desk..."

He walked off to his office, determined to get some sleep while he had the opportunity, even if it did mean listening to advice from Rodney.

Every moment there was someone by Sheppard's bedside, whether it was one or all of his team, Elizabeth, Lorne, Zelenka, or any number of marines and scientists who entered without explanation to watch over the military commander of Atlantis. But hours turned into days, and Sheppard still didn't wake up.

But the person who was there the most was McKay, after the first few days he had stopped bothering the staff or badgering Carson about when Sheppard was likely to wake up, and had just entered silently, working on his laptop as he watched over the man with whom he had formed an unlikely attachment to.

For years Rodney had avoided making friends, repelling any attempt with a layer of hostility and sarcasm, but Sheppard had seen those walls, and instead of trying to break through them or giving up on McKay as so many others had, he had accepted them, had accepted Rodney. He had been the first to do so, and after that, others had started to accept him to.

He sighed and got back to work, going over calculations and simulations and despairing at the stupidity of some of his staff.

Eleven days after the rescue McKay was watching when Sheppard stirred for the first time."Carson! I think he's waking up!"

The Scottish doctor hurried over, "John, I'm going to need you to try and open your eyes, can you do that for me?"

Sheppard heard the voices, at first they seemed far away, but they seemed to get closer as awareness slowly returned. Struggling to do as he was bid, he cracked one eye open, rewarded with a blurry image, which was strange for some reason that he couldn't seem to recall. There was no mistaking who the figure was once a shaft of light seemed to drive into his brain.

"Carson!" he mumbled in protest, or at least he tried to, but his throat was dry, so dry...

"No, don't try to speak yet, here have one of these." He felt an icy coolness slide down his throat, soothing the dryness, if only temporarily.

"Thanks," he murmured, sliding back into sleep, "What took you so long?"

* * *

_Seriously, any of you who reviewed, you are awesome. Reviews are like gold smothered in chocolate delived by a non-homicidal kitten riding a pony._

_Reviews give me the motivation to finish this story, which is good cause this is the hardest fanfic I have ever written, probably because my specialty is oneshot deathfics and this is neither._

_If you havn't reviewed yet, or if you have, either way, just press the little button to let me know if I am doing right/wrong._


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